Couldn't Ignore It
by Vampykitty-kun
Summary: Jason doesn't understand how it always manages to be him that gets sent across dimensions or through time, just that there was clearly some unknown force working against him, one that liked to drive him mad and see him suffer.


Jason doesn't understand how it always manages to be _him_ that gets sent across dimensions or through time, just that there was clearly some unknown force working against him, one that liked to drive him mad and see him suffer.

This time he was clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the way of the wrong sort of ray beam (not that there was _ever_ a _good_ beam), and now he was officially stuck in the past for god only knows how long.

Normally he probably would have been able to handle things… He took his adventures with Donna and Kyle like a champ, survived going to worlds that made him feel like his heart had been ripped out, and ultimately probably became a better person for it.

But this? This was a _test_ , that much he was sure of, and a cruel one at that.

For Jason had _died_ four days ago.

Not him of course, but past him, _Robin_.

That was a special sort of mindfuck, and he was most definitely going to rip the bastard that had sent him here's head off when he got back home, because he did _not_ sign on for this shit, and he was only just recently starting to get his head screwed on straight. This whole fiasco was going to set him back. He wasn't stupid. He knew himself well.

Hiding in a yet to be established safe house of his was pointless. He tried it, for _three_ days, and all it mananged to accomplish was make him neurotic and twitchy.

Hiding would _not_ get him home.

His first night outside of the protection of his safe haven he had seen Bruce. It had been inevitable, that he knew, but even still he had not been properly prepared. As per usual this experience would be a lesson learned.

It honestly hurt to see Bruce so torn up. He hadn't expected it, but the onslaught of feels hit him dead on, and left him gasping for air. Batman was careless. He let himself get hurt. He hurt others- and it seemed several sorts of _wrong_.

Seeing the aftermath of his murder for himself was eye opening…

It had ruined Bruce's world.

For the _second_ time.

He woke up the next afternoon in a heap on a rickety fire escape after several hours of trying to drown his sorrows, only waking reluctantly when the heat from the sun starting turning the steel platform into a grill, and he had felt himself starting to burn even through his body armor.

It messed him up, something he had counted on, but sooner than he had expected.

He found out in a roundabout way that Bruce thought that the Joker was dead. He supposed that explained a thing or two but it didn't lessen the hurt from discovering him alive later.

Dick took his death harder than he had thought as well. He watched him from the shadows when he finally became aware of the situation. It was like watching his own funeral bit by bit.

He slept very little, and only when he passed out from sheer exhaustion, nightmares plentiful.

He was a week into the traumatic experience when he saw the light. Like a lightning strike, directly where he had woken up seven nights before, and unfortunately it had gone before he could reach the area.

He figured it was going to be a thing. His way home.

He returned to the neighboring rooftop each night thereafter…

He avoided the Bat, steered clear of the Titans, and didn't dare chance slipping by to see Oracle. The last thing he wanted was confrontation.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to contain himself.

On day fourteen the lightning visited again and left just as quickly as he watched from the adjacent building. It had a pattern, once a week, like clockwork it seemed.

It was a dangerous bit of knowledge...

He tried hard to ignore things. Block out the world around him and relax. Instead he ended up morbid, spying on people that had known him, watching their lives come to pieces at random when they happened to trigger memories of him. It still hurt to watch, but all the same it filled him with awe, a sense of value.

He had made up his mind to leave the third week, no longer able to handle the anxiety that the trip was causing.

He went back and forth with his _additional_ plan the entire last week.

It was difficult to make decisions. He knew that if anything changed it wouldn't affect him, wouldn't cause a ripple effect, just create another universe. He had tried so hard to keep from doing things that would inevitably cause a rift. Yet as the days rolled on he couldn't help but think about it…

He could _change_ things.

He could make them right, even if only in this world, and that bit of realization was impossible to ignore.

Day twenty he had made up his mind.

It was stupid, reckless, and it woundn't fix things- fix _him_ , but it was something. Something he could live with.

He had waited outside the manor for Bruce's leave. He avoided the security cameras with practiced ease, dropped into his old room without a sound, flinching at how bare it had become in Bruce's temporary effort to rid the house of reminders.

Getting past Alfred had been easy. The old butler was far from his best, _tired_ , busying himself with mindless work while Bruce ran around town getting pummeled.

He slipped behind the grandfather clock while the man was upstairs, making his way down the stone steps, and he paused for a long moment in front of his case staring blankly at the contents.

It seemed to rekindle his nerve.

He left the message in Bruce's main files.

Wiped the camera recordings clean for the duration of the visit.

Left the chair turned and out of place.

Pointedly triggered an alarm on his way out…

Admittedly, he felt better after his break in, more so than he had been for a _very_ long time. He slept well that night back in his empty safe house he hoped would never need to be used. Woke up feeling fresh and renewed. He ate lunch at his favorite hotdog stand that had been long gone once he had eventually returned to Gotham one last time, ran around the city to get one final glimpse of the random people Bruce had never known about- friends from before that life, all of which were long dead back from which he came, victims of the city and their own choices, and at the end of the twenty-first day after three weeks of hell he took his one way lightning bolt home.

He hoped for the best. From then on out things were out of _his_ hands.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Bruce felt sick.

His nerves were shot, his body ached, and he could not remember the last time he had slept. Alfred thought that he was crazy, and really, he could not blame the man in the slightest. It was impossible, _surely_ … but at the same time he had found _it_. A message addressed to him, written in his encrypted files, access limited to those he gave permission to be in the cave. The security feeds had been glitched. An hour's time _lost_ in his records with no explanation. No finger prints, no DNA, no nothing.

Everything was impossible, and yet there was already so much proof in front of his eyes that he could not deny the possibility- _pray_ for the possibility…

He felt foolish.

Even so, there he sat hour after hour in that folding chair, watching the clock as stared at the ground before him. The grass was wet and his jacket did little to keep the cold out as the fog rolled in.

It was morbid.

He hung his head in his hands and fought back the exhaustion, blinking away the sleep that protested his resistance, bobbing his knee in agitation. Alfred had stopped checking on him hours ago but would surely be around again shortly if he did not return inside.

Another hour passed, the thunder began to sound, the lighting blazed up the sky, and Bruce gave a heavy mournful sigh as the downpour began.

He only gave up hope when the rain had soaked through his clothes and sloshed within his boots.

As if the elder man had known, he could see the headlights slowly approaching from down the way, undoubtedly Alfred coming to force his retreat.

He should have ignored the message he decided.

It would have been _healthier_ …

Bruce felt numb as he rose to meet him, not caring as he knocked the steel chair aside, and started across the grass toward the pavement.

He was twenty feet away when he heard the screams over the sound of the storm.

He was positive that he had _never_ moved so fast, leaping over the fallen chair to hit the dirt where he clawed at the muddy ground, the shovel several feet away forgotten in his haste. The muffled screaming below ceased, and for a moment he was terrified that he had imagined it as he flung hunks of grass aside, until the banging and clawing began.

Then he only worked _faster_.

He could hear Alfred shouting behind him as the car screeched to a stop, the dull slam of the door, and the whoosh of an umbrella discharging but he disregarded it all, even as hands grasped at his shoulders.

He swatted at the man desperately, letting loose a feral growl that he didn't mean, and his heart hammered painfully in his chest as he ripped nails from his fingertips in his frantic effort.

And all at once it was very real.

Small fingers broke free from the soil before him, Alfred let out a frightened yelp from behind, and Bruce lunged forward to grab hold of them, flinging mud as he tugged the arm upward.

The lightning cracked dangerously above, and a desperate sound left his lips as muddied strands surfaced, and with a roar he slammed his fist into the appearing sinkhole and brought forth a second hand. One great heave later head and shoulders were unearthed, and he was pulling a cold, wet figure from the ground into his lap.

He wiped the mud from the teen's battered face, and as Jason's eyes flickered open, locking on his own, the boy let out a strangled cry and flung himself around his shoulders. Bruce held him tightly, clinging to him as he murmured in his ear and pet his wet hair, and Alfred seemed at a complete loss of what to do as he stammered and held the umbrella above their heads. Jason sobbed, and despite himself, Bruce could no longer hold back his own tears as he lifted the boy up into his arms.

The ride back to the manor was frantic, and Bruce was very sure that Leslie did not believe a word coming out of Alfred's mouth, but that meant little…

He wasn't sure how or why, nor would he _ever_ be able to explain the secretive message on his computer prophesizing this very event, but he honestly could not care less…

All that really mattered was that Jason was _back_.

His boy was _home_.

And Bruce was certain that he was never _ever_ letting him out of his sight again.


End file.
